


After the Rain

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Books, Bucky is insecure, Dating, Disabilities, Families of Choice, Kid Fic, Meet-Cute, Multi, Some fluff too, Trans Character, Weather Themes, a puddle, clint is also insecure but in a clint way, clint is clint, everyone has some issues, past trauma, tasha is the lord of everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: All Clint wanted was to cheer his daughter up. All Bucky wanted was to have a quiet jog. All the puddle wanted was to lie there in peace, its surface rippling with the gentle breeze.Based onthis prompt.Tags, warnings, and rating will most likely change. Keep an eye out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone.
> 
> I know this isn't the fic you were expecting *cough* but hey, at least I'm writing, right? Hope you enjoy it anyway and crossing fingers for more inspiration on the other series.
> 
> Many thanks to BookDragon for helpfully pointing us to the prompt!
> 
> Also, this is unbeta'd and if the editing happens, it will happen in the future sometime (update: some quick editing happened courtesy of Tanouska and Wormdelivre, but there might still be weirdness, eh; another update: made some slight polishing to Clint's work schedule and rephrased the ending of the chapter a bit). I also have no idea how regular the updates will be, but here's for hoping. 
> 
> Be gentle with yourselves.

It's one of those days when Tasha runs out of the school gates flushed with anger, breaths hitching like she's been trying to hold in sobs. Clint lets the whine that blooms in his chest travel out of his throat as he watches her rush to his car, where he's waiting behind the wheel. Because if he holds it in he _knows_ he's going to cry before she does.  

Thunder rolls above them, giving voice to the thick blanket of angry clouds and Clint breathes in. Out. Given by the stride in Tasha's small legs, he can guess it was an argument with her classmates instead of a teacher patronizing her. Fat drops of rain start falling just as Tasha opens the door and she slides into the front seat. Clint wants to tell her to climb to the back, but swallows a sigh instead. He turns off the engine, watches Tasha cross her arms.

On the windshield, water makes paths into the dust that gathered there for the past week. Car needs a wash. Clint needs a wash. And a beer. He's been on shift for thirty hours straight due to an impromptu drill that some ass in a suit at city hall demanded. Now that it's over, Clint _needs_ to be home already, clean and warm and bundled under a blanket with Tasha and popcorn and a silly cartoon, even though he's pushing forty and Tasha's nine, so "too old for Stitch, daddy." She watches with delight anyway.

Now, though, his little girl needs him to push aside the exhaustion. His chest hurts whenever she butts heads with other kids. He wants her to make friends, fit in, not repeat Clint's experiences. Ah, futz. Tasha's personality is domineering already. It both scares him and makes him insanely happy, that she won't take anyone's crap.

It also doesn't help that she never keeps quiet when she _knows_ she's right. Clint, though, is _never_ going to curb that spirit of hers.

"So?" he prompts.

The rain picks up a few steps, silence stretching between them, before the tension in her shoulders eases.

"We talked about families in class today."

This is new. "And?"

"And they wouldn't believe I only have one parent."

"Plenty kids have one parent."

Tasha shakes her head, biting her lips and the air rushes out of Clint's chest.

"They wouldn't believe you're my mommy _and_ my daddy. Ms. North gave Will detention for yelling. She's the only one who believed me."

He's torn that Tasha has to face this. It's too soon. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Water rushes down in rivulets before him, misting his vision over. He doesn't really know what to say, but after everything, he's not going to fucking hide. Not long after he started working here, he got outed by one of the guys at the Firestation against his will. The ass is not working there anymore and the Company was accepting. Clint still has a job, even made some closer friends since then. But Tasha remembers it. The frantic packing, the _anger_ , which was then replaced by desperation and "don't cry, daddy, don't cry". How she managed to get a hold of his phone and call the Chief is beyond him, but a week later everything had fallen back into place. So it's not for himself that he doesn't want to teach her to lie about something this important, but for her own well being; for that spark inside of her that's a sign of a straightforward, morally sound person that he hopes she becomes.

He finally turns to Tasha.

The flush is gone from her cheeks, and she sits there, half slumped onto herself. Now she just looks sad.

"Strap in, kiddo," he says, turning the keys. "If anyone asks, you're eleven."

Her confusion is brief and gives way to a rush to pull at the belt. No smile, though.

She's secured to the chair quicker than she should be, because she's not supposed to even _be_ in the front. Clint narrows his eyes at her and she lifts her chin, staring right ahead. Daring Clint to accuse her of _practicing safety_. He wants to laugh at the whole thing.

His little girl, ladies and gents. Gonna be a menace. Subtle and smart, but a menace nonetheless.

"It's raining," Clint says.

"Yup." She pops the 'p', clutching at the edges of her seat.

"Ready to make some fountains?"

The grin she gives is not exactly warm, but it's something other than sadness on her face. If Clint plays his cards right—chooses the path right—she's going to be giggling by the time they're home.

Back when she was a lot smaller and Clint had not had the stability of a job yet, he took her for car trips around town after it rained. They'd go through all the puddles, at least those not deep enough to lose a tire, pretending to be on carnival rides. Clint knew the streets then, knew where the asphalt was merely uneven and where there'd be danger of hurting his squeaking rustbucket.

"What's our record?"

Tasha chews on her cheek, thinking, already thrumming with anticipation. "Eight in a row at window level."

Clint drives them through the town center, the parts of it smooth and cared for regularly, so he can come out on the other side. He plans on taking the back streets in a zig-zag, before emerging back on this side of town, close to home.

By the time they pass city hall, the downpour has tapered off. It's more fun this way, the splashes clearer around the car then when drowned by the rain. Soon, the afternoon air is still again, shiny and grey. Best yet, he saw a dip in the blacktop this morning, out by the houses that circle the lake. Road workers were removing a thin layer of old asphalt and now with the rain that came and went during the day, it must've gotten filled up before they managed to cover it again. If he's right, Clint can make the longest and biggest splash ever without any danger to the car.

Good plan. He steps on the gas while Tasha cackles.

~

Bad plan.

Oh, such a bad, _bad_ plan.

This guy looks like he can snap Clint in half and eat Tasha in one chew. He was so focused on the brilliant smile on Tasha's face as they dashed through the water, that he hadn't seen the guy jogging by the side of the road. Now that very guy is standing there, glaring, his white henley dirty with wet asphalt dust.

Tasha is out of the car before Clint can stop her and he rushes after, only to get temporarily choked by his seatbelt. He scrambles with the clutch, panic gripping around his chest because while the guy's appearance was slightly funny from the relative safety of the car, Clint doesn't know how he might react. And Tasha—

Clint plops into the puddle, ass first right onto a stray piece of asphalt rock. He yelps and flinches and ends up face down.

In water.

He paws at his face, too pissed off and scared to even swear, and finally scrambles up.

A few steps behind the car Tasha stands next to the man, arms crossed and utterly unimpressed. The guy's eyes are wide with disbelief, mouth half open, the buds of his earphones dangling off his fingers.

Clint straightens his soaked t-shirt and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, but that doesn't do any good because the fine asphalt dust is on his skin already. All he manages is to smear it over his face, he can feel it scratch at his lips. He grimaces, spits, and then dares look back up.

The guy's laugh pierces the silence like a spot of sunlight peeking through the clouds right after the rain. It flows into a rainbow that settles inside Clint's belly, and with the added sound of Tasha's giggles, it sends his insides into a flutter. The guy is laughing so hard that he bends over, leaning his hand onto Tasha's shoulder, and in turn she clutches at the hem of his shirt, and Clint—

He can see them, in the middle of the living room, in a heap of mirth, heads bent over a game of Spycraft, while Clint's on the other side of the breakfast counter, making grilled cheese—

His heart pangs and he hurries to dispel the flash of fantasy. He doesn't even know this guy's name, what the hell is _wrong_ with him today?

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he mutters. "See if I'm taking either of you home."

The guy's guffaws suddenly stop as he sucks in a breath and fuck Clint's life. He ignores the way his cheeks heat and instead chooses to steps closer so he can herd Tasha away from the strange man. He's a head taller than Clint, shoulders wide, scruffy stubble on his face and long hair gathered messily at the back of his head with what looks to be an actual ribbon…

Clint trips on fucking nothing and he only realizes it when he notices the puddle rising fast toward his face. It stops, though, close to the tip of his nose, and then the angle changes as Clint is straightened back up.

"You ok there, man?" the guy asks, still propping Clint up with a hand on his shoulder.

Clint wants to say yes, but it comes out a squeak.

"Daddy?"

Tasha's concern serves to sober him up immediately, pushing aside the embarrassment and the exhaustion. Parental instincts kick in, stark in the chill of the afternoon, as Clint turns to his daughter.

"I'm fine, kiddo," he tells her, taking her hand while the press of the one on his shoulder disappears. He kinda misses it.

She clutches at his fingers as she looks up to the guy. "We're sorry we splashed you, mister," she says, serious and respectful and Clint soars with pride.

The man nods, a smile around his quiet "That's ok. You can call me Bucky."

Clint shoos Tasha to the car before turning back to the guy. "Really, I'm sorry. I was just trying to cheer her up," he confesses. "Didn't see you there. Wanna send me the cleaning bill?"

There's a small frown forming on Bucky's forehead as he watches Clint intently, but Clint refuses to feel self-conscious.

"If you wanna make it up to me, how about you buy me coffee?"

Clint chokes on his tongue.

~

Bucky's heart is pumping double-time in his chest as he walks back to his house and his breaths are quick and short by the time he closes the door behind him. He leans on the wood, hands shaking as he plucks his phone out of his pocket, speed dials.

"I asked a guy out," is what comes out of his mouth as soon as the call connects.

There's a brief silence from the other end before Stevie speaks. "You good?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Bucky pulls at air, but the air pulls back out.

"Icepick?"

The code word does its job of grounding Bucky while he considers the question. There's nothing of the tell-tale signs of a panic attack, and he shakes his head. "No," he repeats out loud. "Jittery."

"You home?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay," Stevie says, followed by a rustle. "Let's make tea."

They've done this countless times before. Bucky follows Steve's spoken instructions, matching him action for action, and the familiarity of it brings him back to calmness. They're a country apart now, by Bucky's choice, because he can't fall into codependency with his best friend, and he needs to be alone for a while. Steve is still the cornerstone of his recovery, will always be. Those first few months he was the only one Bucky could stand to have near. Now it's four years later and Bucky can leave the house by himself and do things on his own. He still exchanges emails with his therapist once in a while, but he doesn't need it anymore. The last step was to push himself out of the comfort of Steve's apartment and pursue one of his personal desires.

If Bucky had been asked, twenty years ago when he was twelve and snotty and too charming for his own good, what he wanted to do with his life, he definitely wouldn't have said "be a librarian." Yet, here he was. In a relatively small town, with a medium size library, not too deserted and not too crowded.

He loves the silence, the smell of old paper, the gentleness of repetitive motions as he handles the books.

Nobody knows him here. There are mountains peppering the horizon and thick trees everywhere. There's a lake at the edge of town with such a sense of stillness to it that Bucky has made it a habit of jogging around its shore before meandering back through the neighborhood. Sometimes the house feels too big, but both Steve and Sam insisted he gets it because "you never know, man."

Bucky snorts.

"What was that?" Stevie asks, his voice tinny from the speaker.

"Nothing, just thinking."

Steve hums, falls silent again for a bit. "Wanna tell me about the guy?"

The tea mug is hot between his palms, his heartbeat steady. "Yes," he says, mostly to himself. "His name is Clint, he has a daughter named Tasha, he ran over a puddle and drenched me in rainwater, but then he tripped three times and ended up wetter than me, he's blond like you and small like you and—"

Steve's laugh is soft.

"What?"

"Only a couple of months away and you're already replacing me?"

Bucky blows out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Jerk. Nobody could replace your punk ass, mister I-only-have-eyes-for-Sam. You didn't hear me complain."

"But he's so pretty, Buck."

A snicker bubbles out of Bucky's chest. He has to admit, Steve has a special talent of pulling Bucky out of his head. The world has a bright sort of clarity when Steve is involved.

"Hey," he whispers. "Thanks."

"No problem, man. 's what I'm here for."

"And go tell Sam how you feel."

"What? I can't hear you anymore, I think my phone is broken. Bye, Buck."

Bucky rolls his eyes at the beep of the call disconnecting.

~

Despite Steve's assurances that Bucky won't make a fool out of himself, his left-hand fingers have been twitching all day. Bucky scowls at them as he strides toward the coffee shop with the good cinnamon buns. It's right off main street, a short walk from the library, and one of Bucky's favorite haunts. When he settled on a time and place with Clint, he chose this place specifically. Bucky knows its layout, the staff, the menu choices. There isn't much room for unexpected events.

The idea of something terrible happening spawns unabated into his head, sending his heart into his throat with the sole purpose of increasing the tremors of his hands. Both of them. He stops for a moment, makes a fist with his right hand, tight enough that his fingernails bite into his palm. It's not really working, so he pulls out his phone and sends a quick _'ugh'_ to Steve.

 _'if u bail i will disown u'_ comes back so fast that Bucky's sure Steve was just waiting around the phone.

 _'asshole'_ he sends back and receives one of those smug smileys he hates.

But then again, the answer does its job of distracting Bucky.

"Fuck you," he mutters at his left hand before shoving it inside the pocket of his jeans.

It's just coffee in a public place that he already knows with a guy that was so gentle with his daughter the other day that Bucky doesn't think he's going to pull anything on him. Besides, Bucky can defend himself. He can. With a deep breath that trembles a little on the intake, he picks up his pace again.

The bell above the door jingles when he enters, Clint waves at him from where he's sitting at one of the two-seat side tables, and the smell of coffee is overwhelming in its familiarity. There are already two cups in front of Clint, so Bucky shuffles over to take the other chair.

"Hey," Clint says. "Didn't know what you'd like, so I got you black and—" he looks around, shifty enough that Bucky's breath stalls in his chest, before dropping something on the table "—these."

Bucky stares at the pile of sugar packets and creamers for a moment, before a snort makes its way out of his throat.

"Are you even allowed to do that?"

Clint's eyes are wide and full of amusement when he shakes his head. "Don't tell Helen." He points a thumb behind himself toward Bucky's favorite barista.

She sees him looking and tips her chin in a salute, right before she zooms in on the pile of contraband on their table. Bucky grins. His fingers twitch in his pocket, but his pulse is steady.

"I take it black," he tells Clint. "You better return those before she lynches us both."

Clint puffs a 'psh' and wiggles his fingers in dismission of Helen. "Not scared of her." He leans closer over the table and says in a stage-whisper. "I've seen her naked."

Thankfully he hasn't been loud enough to be heard by anyone else—especially Helen—but Bucky's eyebrows raise. He can't tell if Clint is joking or if he's merely the sort of monumental ass that looks down on women after he's slept with them.

Just as Bucky opens his mouth, Clint freezes and his face reddens so fast, that it makes Bucky dizzy.

"I didn't—gah, not like that! Fire!" Clint's entire body moves as he gestures between them. "Alarm!" A sugar packet gets flicked off the table. "And she was—" The stammering ends in a whine and Clint lowers his face to his palms. He takes a deep breath. "It was an accident," he mutters. "The smoke alarm went off in her building and I was the one to walk in on her."

Bucky is relieved. Unfortunately, he doesn't really know what to say. Clint looks more mortified than simply embarrassed, so Bucky latches onto the safest thing in that explanation.

"You're a firefighter?"

Slowly, Clint peeks up at him. "Yeah. I'm also clumsy, put my foot in my mouth, offend people, and don't know when to shut my pizza-hole, so I end up—" He grimaces, making a rolling motion between them.

Bucky smiles.

"Shut up," Clint mumbles.

Bucky smiles wider.

~

Clint is ready to call it a day and retreat before he manages to say something even more stupid when Bucky smiles. His face warms with it, like he's staring at a long-time friend. Clint squirms in his seat.

"So what do you do?"

"I work at the library," Bucky says.

Clint snaps his fingers. "I need to get Tasha a card! I keep forgetting. What day is tomorrow?"

"Monday."

"I work then. What about Tuesday afternoon?"

Bucky shakes his head. "We're closed this Tuesday for inventory."

Clint looks up, counting the days on his fingers, trying to recall the schedule Chief stuck to the wall this morning. "Can't make it this week." He has to cover some half shifts for a bit, they all do, with two guys out on medical reasons. The extra pay is handy, but damn, Tasha's gonna kill him. She's been pestering him since Christmas and now it's already May and Clint's just a horrible father.

"What station are you at?"

"Huh?"

"The one near the community center?"

"One on Oak," Clint corrects, frowning. What even…

"Right on my way," Bucky says then. "How about I bring you a card for her after work tomorrow? You'll just have to sign a form and give me her info. And yours."

Clint keeps staring until Bucky clears his throat.

"Sorry, that was… invasive."

"No, no," Clint hurries to reassure. "I was surprised. It would be great, are you sure it's not too much trouble?"

Bucky's shoulders lose their tension as the smile is back on his face. "Not at all."

Oh, yeah, that's a nice look on him. Clint's belly flutters again. Twice in the span of three days and both because of this man. Too bad it won't come to anything in the long run. He covers the impending dread and self-doubt by flinging himself out of the chair. "Cho," he calls, "do you have any paper in this dump?"

"Not until you return my property." There are no new customers up front, so she's sitting behind the counter, doing some complicated math again.

The accidental nudity somehow transformed into friendship and although Clint rarely comes by the shop, Helen is over at Clint's three nights a week, keeping the kid company while Clint's on shift. She likes to teach Tasha math. Once, Clint asked her why she's masquerading as a barista when she clearly is a lot smarter than that. And Helen quietly told him, "you of all people should understand starting over." So Clint never questioned her choices again.

"I didn't steal anything."

She raises an eyebrow.

An arm extends next to Clint and then the precious loot of sugar and cream is placed on the counter.

"Aw!"

"Here you go," Bucky says.

He's standing close, but not too close, one hand in his pocket with its connecting shoulder half slouched, and the other resting on the edge of the countertop. He winks at Clint, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. It's an absurdly contradicting picture he presents, half confident and half awkward, and Clint is really… awed.

He's never met someone that draws him in this easily.

He shifts on his feet, resisting the urge to cross his arms, and instead he tries to lean with his hip against the counter. Only problem is that he misses and soon Bucky is laughing with tears while Clint sits on the floor, covered in wooden stirrers. He really likes the sound of that laugh.

~

A couple of hours later Clint picks Tasha up from her playdate with Jane—whom, despite being two years younger, Tasha adores to the brink of possessiveness, and Clint should really have a chat with Chief about that, to make sure she and Thor are ok with the direction their friendship is taking.

Today, Tasha has red crayon smudges on her cheek.

"We were playing detectives, daddy," she tells him when he asks. "I was the criminal and got stabbed in the face."

Clint sighs.

Tasha looks at him unrepentant from the backseat. It feels like she's waiting for him to say something, one little thing, just to have an excuse to maul him. But not yet, not until she turns teenager. He's safe, for now.

But hell, as long as she doesn't hurt anyone, she can play whatever she wants. Clint will just have to get some books with sound morals for her to read, make sure she understands. Speaking of books—

"Did you meet with Bucky?"

Clint flinches and almost swerves, but his reflexes are too good in life and death situations. When it comes to not making a fool out of himself in front of attractive guys, not so much. He whines.

"What did you do?" Tasha asks, suspicious.

"Nothing."

"Daddy," Tasha pleads. "He was nice."

He glances at her through the mirror. "How do you know, huh? You only met him for like a minute."

There's a pout forming on her cute little face. "I _know_."

To be fair, Tasha is a pretty good judge of character. A while back when Clint met this absolutely gorgeous woman with a sweet tooth and kind voice, Tasha absolutely refused to let Clint near her. A couple of weeks later a friend at the police station told him she got arrested for starving her kids. He trusts Tasha's gut. Only, this time, it's the first when Tasha is pushing Clint _toward_ someone instead of away.

"I love you, kiddo, you know that?"

She nods. "Love you, too, daddy."

"Guess what, Bucky works at the library."

"Really?" Tasha's face is so bright, half her body hanging from her seatbelt between the front seats, grin wide enough to blind Clint. "Can we visit?"

"If my hours allow. Now sit back, it's not safe."

"Ok, daddy."

She listens, she always does, she's a good kid and right now there's a pleased smile on her face. He's gonna have to rearrange Tasha's schedule, if she likes it at the library. He's worried about Bucky, he admits it, not because there's something wrong with the guy, but because Tasha likes him. Hell, Clint  _ likes _ him, though he barely knows him, and in his experience— _ fuck _ his experience. He shakes his head. He'll just have to make sure he doesn't grow attached. Clint breathes in, then out, and finally he smiles. Can't help it, really, not when Tasha's so content.

~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, this is long overdue. Thank you for your patience.  
> I have many feels about this story, but for some reason all the scenes running through my head lately are set in future chapters. Heh.  
> It's not beta'd, especially the last part might have some typos, but I wanted to put it out there.  
> Edit: now beta'd courtesy of tanouska :) thank you~  
> Enjoy~

By mid-afternoon Clint is both bored and tired, which is a dangerous combination, usually. He almost wishes he were on cleaning duty, to release all that pent up energy accumulated during the morning by proofreading the new fire safety pamphlets. Today, however, he has something to look forward to, and he escapes the kitchen to join Chief in the garage. She's sitting on the bench to the side, checking some of the older helmets for wear, and Clint parks his butt next to her, offers one of the two water bottles he's carried over. One of the large doors is open, letting the sunlight in at a slanted angle, along with a soft breeze that smells of late spring. 

He stretches, rolls his head, yawns. Chief raises an eyebrow at him and Clint shrugs. 

"You've been distracted today," she comments. 

Clint flicks invisible lint off his knee. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Helen said you had a date."

"Traitor," he mutters. He wipes a hand over his face. "I did, kinda, I think so. Maybe. Aren't you supposed to, I dunno, work, Chief?" 

He makes a vague gesture but Chief smirks, not apparently dissuaded from the topic. She sets down the helmet in her hands and opens the water. 

"There, we're both officially on break."

Clint grumbles with a roll of his eyes, swaying when she elbows him gently. There's mirth in her eyes, something not often found there and it melts Clint's reticence. 

"Splashed a guy, we went for coffee as an apology, and—aw, dammit.  _ He  _ paid for the coffees." He throws his hands in the air, not intentionally exaggerating, but it earns him a grin from Sif. 

"Sounds like he wanted an excuse to see you again."

"Why, he's already seeing me today—" Clint snaps his mouth shut. 

Sif's grin turns predatory as she leans closer. "Do tell, how are you going to see him when you're on shift until tomorrow morning."

Clint elbows her back. "He's just gonna stop by to drop Tasha's library card. Won't be more than a minute."

There's a moment of silence as Sif takes this in and already Clint knows he won't escape telling the whole story, so he spares her the effort. 

"He works at the library and you know how I am with time and Tasha wanted one. He's just doing me a favor."

"After you splashed him and he bought you coffee… boy must really like you."

Huh. Clint hasn't thought of it that way, and the second it clicks, his cheeks turn red. Sif laughs. She really laughs, out loud. Clint fights the urge to flee. 

"What's his name?"

"Bucky," he says. "Tall, awkward and not awkward, has nice eyes. Tasha likes him." 

"Good." Sif pats at his shoulder. 

Clint nods, although he's not so sure anything will come out of it with Bucky. They've only met twice and Clint's already made an ass of himself, on both occasions. But Sif is losing the air of amusement, getting that faraway look he loathes seeing on her, so he doesn't say anything else. Instead, he asks, "How're you doing?" They haven't had much time to talk lately, just the two of them. 

She leans forward, elbows on knees, and considers this, rolling the bottle between her hands, before turning to him. 

"I'm fine," she says and it rings true to Clint's ears. "There have been no complications so far, but we're going for another checkup at the end of the week. I'll be able to breathe easier after."

Clint leans his shoulder onto hers in support, and silence falls around them. There's a low thrum of noise coming from the kitchen, voices overlapping and pots clinging. At some point the words "dare" and "are you kidding me" are obvious. Clint hopes the others will continue to be occupied when Bucky drops by. 

If he's coming at all. He sighs. 

"I should get Jane a library card," Sif says. 

It's not out of nowhere, Clint knows, but it feels like a punch to the gut. A happy punch, if that's even a thing, because Sif's words mean that she's a firm believer in Jane's recovery. That little girl has been through hell and back, Sif and Thor as well, while they were slowly making their way down the donor list. Things are looking up and finally, after so long, Clint can see that vibrancy of life that was missing back in his friend. 

"I know a guy," he returns with a grin. 

Sif smiles and then her attention is caught by something outside. "That him?"

Clint twists to see Bucky walking up the driveway, hair loose over his shoulders and one hand in his jacket pocket. Gah, he looks even better like this, and Clint's belly squirms. He mutters that he'll be back in a bit, or at least he thinks he does, before jogging outside to meet Bucky half way. 

His throat is dry and although he's still clutching the water bottle, with his luck, he'll end up in an inelegant coughing fit. Instead he almost trips over his own feet and by the time he's standing in front of Bucky, his cheeks are hot. Of course, Bucky seems amused instead of annoyed, and Clint grins. 

"Hey, you," he drawls, "come back to see me faceplant on concrete? 'Cos that one hasn't happened. Yet."

But the expression on Bucky's face falls, until it's verging on horrified and Clint's chest pangs with it. He can't stand to look at it anymore, so he fixes his eyes on the tips of his boots. 

"I swear I'm not that clumsy when it comes to my job," he mutters. 

It's embarrassing, he's a grown man, and the feeling swirls in on itself when Clint registers that Bucky doesn't know him. He'd gotten used to his friends' good-natured ribbing of his seemingly sentient limbs, that it's just a reflex now, to join in with the joking. It's not like the others don't have their own quirks—Peale's hair, for instance, has a tendency to catch fire, and that's why she's here  _ and  _ why her head is in a close buzzcut—not like they don't  _ all _ make fun of themselves on a daily basis. It's what they do, in their accident-prone firefighter team, it's what Clint's brought over to his other friends as well. Otherwise life gets very sad, very fast. It occurs to him, though, that from the outside it might not look good.

"Um," comes from Bucky. A long, unsure sound. "That's not what I—look, I wouldn't want to see you hurt, okay?" 

Bucky inhales sharply enough that Clint hears it, and he looks up to see an open expression, earnest. Maybe a little bit pink in the cheeks. Bucky swallows, bites at his lip, then huffs with a shake of his head. 

"I'm really sorry for laughing," he says. "I didn't mean to, it's just—" He breathes in and out again, more of a sigh than anything, waving with his free hand. 

"It's okay." 

"No, it's not. You fell down and I laughed like an asshole." Now Bucky's scowling and all Clint wants is to go back to the lighthearted teasing from the other day. 

"If it's you, I don't mind. You have a nice laugh."

Bucky blinks at him, slowly and incredulously. But then, after a moment that seemed never-ending, he smirks. Clint lets out a shuddery breath and the tension in his shoulders subsides. 

"Seriously now," he says, needing to explain this to take it off Bucky's mind altogether, "I trip and do clumsy futzy stuff all the time. The  _ only _ way to move past it is to embrace it, so what better way than to make fun of it..." He shrugs a shoulder, self-conscious again. Why is this so hard? What's so special about this guy that Clint's lost even the last shred of smooth he had?

Somehow Bucky's somber again, but this time he's regarding Clint critically. Soon after, though, he nods once—more to himself than anything—and pulls his left hand out of his pocket. It's shaking, visibly. Clint blinks. 

"I have a permanent tremor in my hand," Bucky says. "Sometimes it's too low to notice, but other times it gets even worse than this. I keep breaking things, hasn't been pretty. What joke would you have me make about  _ this _ ?"

Clint blinks again. Bucky's words aren't cutting, his voice is almost flat, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity there and Clint takes his time to consider it. He can't fathom what Bucky must be thinking right now. Here Clint is, a human being with a fully functional body, making fun of his clumsiness when Bucky's own is uncontrollable and most likely unwanted. If it were him, he'd be glad to have something fun to tack onto it, but he doesn't know Bucky yet. If he's wrong, he'll apologize, but if he's right, he has to make it good. The stupidest thing comes to mind, then, something only Quill would come up with, and Clint puts on his most innocent expression, for effect. 

"An integrated vibrator joke?" 

Bucky yelps, cradling his left hand to his chest with his right, utterly appalled, mouth open in shock. But he can't hold it, his lips wobble, and soon he's laughing, half caught in the incredulosity that is Clint. 

On his part, Clint smiles, pleased with himself, scratches his nose. 

"That's the worst," Bucky starts to say, but laughs harder instead. There might be tears in his eyes. 

Clint's smile turns into a grin. "Awful, right? But so funny. That's me, a funny guy. Who still owes you coffee. Maybe two coffees. One for the splashing and one for the vibrator. And one for the library card. Oh, look, it's so sunny out here, what do you think of the weather?"

Bucky's mirth tapers into chuckles by the time Clint has finished his rambling. Okay, so maybe he really wants to see Bucky again, too. Maybe he's fucked it up already. Bucky's watching him intently, and Clint wonders if running away will score him points. 

"If I rack up enough coffees," Bucky asks before Clint can chicken out and back off, "do you think I can exchange those for a dinner? Maybe a movie?"

Clint beams. 

Nods.

And then, when Bucky smiles, soft and gentle, Clint almost chokes on his own spit. So he drinks from his bottle while Bucky digs into his bag. 

"Here," he says, handing over a small piece of blue plastic. "The picture you emailed me worked perfectly. I just need you to sign the forms." He pulls out papers from his bag, and Clint eyes them warily. 

"That looks like a lot of forms."

"Nah, just two, the rest are schedules and events. See," he flips the stack open, "this one is about the kids' reading sessions, these are for the board game tournaments, and here we have the schedule for the traveling theatre. And these—" 

"Theatre?" Clint interrupts. He used to love theatre, but couldn't really afford it before. And now, aside from the plays that the highschool kids put on every year at the community center, there aren't other opportunities in this town. 

"Yeah, they usually do fairytales, it's fun."

Tasha loves it even more than he does. Boy, oh boy, she'd be  _ delighted _ . 

"How much?" he asks, trying to ignore the impending lump in his throat. 

"The library pays," Bucky says. "There's a donation box, if you wanna contribute, but it's a county program, so…" He shrugs. "The entire network receives money yearly from some rich asshole, boss says. Dunno if he's really an asshole, but apparently there's an anonymity clause or something—you know what, that's not interesting. Theatre's free and you and Tasha should take advantage."

He huffs at himself and Clint bites his lip to keep from planting a smooch on him. 

"You're adorable," he says instead, which is not much better. 

Bucky scowls, opens his mouth to probably argue against it, but then snaps it shut and shoves his left hand back in his pocket. 

"Hello," comes from behind Clint. Of course. Sif stops next to him, a glint in her eyes and Clint really wants to roll his. He should've known. Way into the garage, crowded around the corner like a bunch of unwanted polips, are the bane his existence, blinking three pairs of overly curious eyes their way. Clint clears his throat.

"Bucky Barnes, this is my boss, Chief North."

Sif and Bucky shake hands, pleasure-to-meet-you's on both sides, and then she adds, "Please, call me Sif."

Bucky acquiesces, just as a wave of whines drifts over. Clint groans. 

"Those are Quill," he points at the three from top to bottom, "Peale, and Douglas. Under no circumstances are you to let Quill convince you to call him Star Lord."

"But you can use Nebula and Drax for the other two," Sif adds. 

Clint squints at her and she winks. Behind them, Quill's outraged shout resounds over the victorious high five of the other two, but the ruckus is short lived. 

"Back to work," Sif barks in her Chief voice and they scramble away. 

On his part, Bucky seems amusedly curious, maybe a little wary of the no doubt maniacal expressions of his teammates, but Clint breathes a little easier. Those three can be overbearing and overwhelming and he really wants to avoid scaring Bucky away.

"Sorry about that," Clint mutters while Sif cranes her neck to read the pamphlet still in Bucky's hands. "Oh! Theatre! For Tasha! When is it?" 

"There's a morning show this Sunday, and then the next one is in two weeks, but Friday afternoon." He looks expectantly between Sif and Clint, then back down at the paper, a little frown line reappearing between his eyebrows.

"They'll be there," Sif says before Clint can even think of his schedule. "Could you take Jane, too? Thor could use a morning off and I'm on shift."

"Sure," Clint tells her. It's a non-issue, but then he realizes, "Does she need a card?" he asks Bucky. 

"Jane's my daughter," Sif explains. 

"Well, um… yeah," Bucky confirms. He's still hanging awkwardly onto the papers with one hand, the other in his pocket, the connecting shoulder a little hunched, and Clint deflates. He looks uncomfortable. 

He's reminded, just then, why he loves Sif as much as he does, because she takes a step back, hangs her thumbs into the loops of her belt. 

"Does personal service for Clint extend to his boss?" she asks, sweetly and with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle. 

It makes Clint redden, but it also pulls a laugh out of Bucky, and Clint takes it. 

"For Clint, yeah," Bucky tells her, before turning to him. "Just send me the same info. You can both pay the fee by the end of the month, but I need your signatures on the forms now."

Clint grabs the papers, then, to avoid make him use his left hand, which is clearly a sore topic, and shuffles them around. 

"I can email you an unfilled copy for Jane," he says, "and you can bring them all on Sunday."

"Sounds perfect," Sif declares. "Thank you, I'm sure Jane's going to love it."

She moves to leave, but Clint takes a step closer to her. "Can I tell him—"

"Yeah," Sif murmurs. "It was nice to meet you, Bucky."

It's just them left, and perhaps the curious speculations of the others drifting over from the inside of the garage, under the afternoon sun. A bird might be chirping in the distance. 

"Jane had a heart defect. Needed a transplant. She's still in recovery, but things are looking up. She's only a little younger that Tasha and I can't even begin to imagine what Chief's been going through. So, you know, thanks for helping."

Bucky's lips are pressed in a tight line, and he nods, once. "My best friend's had health problems all his life. There were times when—"

He stops, but Clint gets it and shuffles a little bit closer. 

"Thank you for Tasha, too." Bucky smells nice, looks soft. It makes Clint smile despite the ups and downs of the conversation.

"You already said."

"Did I? When?"

"When you agreed on dinner."

Clint gapes. "Wow, very smooth."

"I know." That smirk looks so good on Bucky, Clint can't wait to taste it. At some point. Soon, perhaps. 

"Lunch after the play on Sunday?"

"It's a date," Bucky whispers. Like this, up close, when the day is warm and bright—

"Barton! Break's over. Make moony eyes at each other later!"

Clint jumps and Bucky stumbles back. He looks a little dazed as he waves Clint goodbye, but who wouldn't be when faced with Chief. And the guys. And Jane's story. And everything. Clint hangs his head and trudges back into the station, makes a beeline to the schedule tacked on the wall next to the office. Ugh, he has to do a night on Saturday. 

~

It's a bright, sunny day and Bucky stops at a bench in the small park between the fire station and his bus stop. He slowly breathes in, breathes out, and a few times more to calm the squirming feeling in his chest. For a moment he can't help wondering if he did something stupid in front of Clint's boss. He shakes his head at himself. 

Overall, he's fine. Great, even. A little agitated, but that's expected, isn't it, when interacting with new people and showing them his  _ hand _ while trying to ask them out. 

Bucky blows his next exhale out loudly. 

He can't really believe how awful that joke was. The  _ good  _ kind of awful. He hadn't known how much he needed that ridiculous line until he heard it. It makes him grin, just as he whispers another "fuck you" to the hand, an affectionate one. He won't let it— _ what it stands for _ —define him. Repeats it again, this mantra he's created long ago. 

Beyond the funny, though, Clint didn't so much as flinch. Bucky'd watched his face carefully when he showed him, and Clint took it as it was. No pity, no fake sympathy, no questions. Which, yeah, he probably has questions, but it wasn't the first thing that came out of his mouth. It pleases Bucky. 

Between the lingering mirth and the elation of a new date on Sunday, under the warmth of sunlight, Bucky lets himself daydream for a bit. What would a future with Clint look like? Would they go to the lake in the summer, the kid on his shoulders and Clint at his side? Maybe they'd prefer staying inside, to avoid the heat, all blinds drawn until it's almost dark in the house at midday, that natural cool no air conditioner can replicate, just like it was at his grams house when he was little. It's too early to think about stuff like that, he knows, and he can only hope it leads  _ somewhere _ at this point. A few dates at least. Until—

It is, however, the fact that he  _ hopes _ at all that makes him smile and shake off everything else. Hope is important, his therapist used to say in those early days. Bucky couldn't agree more. 

He's brought out of his musings by Steve's ringtone. 

"Hey," he answers the call. 

"How'd it go?"

"Good, I think. Seeing him and his kid on Sunday."

Steve woots, thankfully not directly into the mic. Bucky smiles. 

"I showed him the tremors," he adds and then stops because he doesn't really know how to explain why being compared to a sex toy was funny. He scratches at his cheek, blows a strand of hair out of his face. 

"And?" Steve nudges from the other end of the line.

A knot forms in the middle of his chest. 

"Bucky?"

"He made me laugh about it," he says in a rush. "And feel safe with him knowing. It's good. So far." That last part is so quiet he barely even hears it himself. 

There's a silent beat and then Steve groans in that dramatic way he does when he's being a little shit on purpose. The familiarity of it settles the worry in Bucky. 

"Please tell me it's not a sex joke. It was, wasn't it. I don't wanna hear." Steve even does the obligatory "lalala" until Bucky laughs and calls him an idiot. 

A while later, after they've gone over Steve's meeting with a client that morning, and after they've dissected the latest episode of Star Trek Discovery, Steve clears his throat. 

"Was it really a sex joke?" he asks, a little subdued. 

"Kinda."

"And you're okay with it?"

Surprisingly, Bucky is. "Yeah, it's funny. Here's my hand, pleased to meet you, and here's my integrated vibrator. Non-detachable."

Steve snorts. "Dude."

"Come on, laugh, I know you want to."

Steve does, and Bucky starts toward the bus stop while still listening to the chuckles. He's good. 

~

By Thursday, though, he's a bit jittery. He hasn't been on actual dates in too many years, not counting the coffee with Clint. The day's been rainy enough to make it boring at work, and Steve's elbows deep in a project, so he stops by the cafe for some tea after his shift. Better than staring at a wall at home, wondering if he'll screw it up before it even begins. 

Helen waves at him, makes him a hot cup, and Bucky watches the sidewalk outside for a while. The silence is comfortable, the only customers him and a couple of people on their laptops, clicking gently enough to fade into the sound of rain. He's almost done with the drink when a car stops up front and a little girl with a red mop of hair rushes in, backpack over her head. 

She's making her way toward the counter, but she suddenly turns Bucky's way and that's when he recognizes her, under wet curls.

"Hi, Bucky," Tasha says. "Can I sit with you?"

"Tasha," Helen says as she approaches. "Why are you here so early?"

"Ms. North made Ben's mom drive me. She had to stay back because Mira sprained her ankle."

Helen sighs and rubs through Tasha's hair. "And she made you run through the rain. That woman, I swear," she mutters. "You're not that wet. Hold on, I'll get you a towel." 

She looks between Bucky and the kid, unsure.

"I'll keep her company," he says.

Tasha just turns a smile at her, in a thinly veiled pretend-angelic promise of behaving. Helen sighs again and Bucky stifles a chuckle. 

"School, huh?" he asks. 

She nods, sending stray drops from the tips of her curls onto the table. 

"Tough, kid. What grade are you in?"

"The insufferable one." She crosses her arms and Bucky laughs fully. "Third. You?"

"Well, I did all twelve of them and then four more in college."

She thinks for a moment. "Thirteen more years? This is unfair," she says and splays her upper body onto the table, her forehead hitting it with a thud. 

Helen returns then. "This is one of those drama days, isn't it?" 

She starts rubbing at the kid's hair while she mumbles unintelligibly from where she's mushed her face into the wood. Helen elbows her gently. 

"Come on, sit up, or I'm taking you to the break room for a nap."

Tasha shoots up like stung. "No, I'm staying here," she declares with determination.

Helen looks at him, then, one eyebrow raised. "More tea?"

"Yes, please," he says. "And for my guest?" 

Tasha makes a show of thinking about it. "Can I have hot chocolate?"

"Did you eat all your lunch today?" Helen asks her and she nods. "Fine, but only one cup. Otherwise you'll jump around all night and your dad needs to sleep."

"Yup," Tasha agrees, popping the P. 

She's already engrossed in wiping down her backpack and Bucky follows Helen to grab the drinks.

"Where  _ is _ Clint?" he wonders out loud, before he can stop himself, because he's not in a position to be outwardly curious about Clint's whereabouts. 

"On shift," Helen says. "It's pretty hard being a single parent in this day and age, so I look after her when I can. I'm not the only one. Clint has people who care about him here."

There's an edge in her tone, but he might be imagining it. Her posture is relaxed while she's preparing their drinks. 

"I don't have nefarious intentions," he defends, despite himself, sounding weirdly like a villain in a cheesy movie. 

She smiles a sad little smile that Bucky feels like a punch to the gut. That's the look of someone who's been hurt by a person she trusted and kinship forms beneath his skin. But the moment passes as she tips her chin to where Tasha is wrestling a book out of the backpack. 

"She needs to do her homework."

Bucky takes it as the tacit approval that it is and grabs the cups from the counter. He's a step away when she says, words almost gleeful, "Oh, if anything happens to her, Clint's going to  _ eviscerate _ you."

It shouldn't warm him as much as it does. 

~


End file.
